


sleeping/dreaming patterns

by softlyforgotten



Category: Bandom, Panic At The Disco, The Young Veins
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-08-22
Updated: 2010-08-22
Packaged: 2017-10-22 22:36:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,692
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/243334
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/softlyforgotten/pseuds/softlyforgotten
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was raining when Brendon landed back in the states. AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	sleeping/dreaming patterns

It was raining when Brendon landed back in the States.

There was no one there to meet him; Brendon guessed that the label probably didn’t even know yet that he’d decided not to stay for a little bit longer at the end of the tour. Undoubtedly they’d be there in four days to pick up the crew and their gear right on schedule. He wound his way through the airport alone, past the little crowds waiting for the last few flights of the night and towards baggage pick-up. He rubbed his hands against his face, scratching against stubble, eyes sinking closed. God, he hated flying.

His acoustic guitar sailed around the bend and Brendon seized it, and his battered suitcase a little way behind. He scratched at his chin again and breathed out a bit too heavily, surprising himself. Fucking traveling, he thought, fucking, _fucking_ plane flights and uncomfortable seats and spines melded into awful, upright positions and – worst of the worse – other passengers. Brendon loved music, and he loved having the sort of profile now that that label would fly him over to tour in Europe, but God he was tired and the tour had been nothing like he’d expected. Europe had been a series of dark, unknown venues and faceless crowds (or no crowds at all – three nights in Glasgow playing to four people and their assorted pets, one night in Moscow playing to seven stony-faced women who stood motionless with their arms folded) and awful weather. Brendon wasn’t exactly glad to be home, but he was sort of glad to be away from there.

He walked out and through the airport’s main doors, and then jerked back in involuntarily. It was freezing, and now pouring with rain, too. “Jesus,” Brendon muttered, and then darted back out into the cold night and towards the nearest cab. He slid in the door, banging his suitcase carelessly and trying to be more gentle with his guitar, folding himself awkwardly around the luggage while rattling off his address (and it took him a strange, surreal moment to remember it – five months since he’d been home, he thought, although – no, six, with the month spent in Vegas with his family before that). It was a ridiculous relief to sag back into the seat, eyes sinking closed again, head falling back. The driver was playing a classical radio station, and the car seemed to hum with the soft sound of it, volume a little too low for Brendon’s taste. One of Bach’s cello suites, he thought, but he was too tired to remember which one.

The car ground to a halt, but it took Brendon a few moments to realize they’d stopped, despite the cabby’s mumbled, confused prompts. He grinned kind of sheepishly and leaned forward, paid the guy. “Thanks,” he said. “Have a good night.”

It was still raining hard, and the door to Brendon’s cheap apartment block had blown open; he almost slipped going up the stairs. His guitar slipped with him and swung out to bang against the wall, and Brendon swore under his breath. He forced himself to slow down to avoid a broken neck, even though he was freezing and wanted a hot shower, and his warm bed.

He unlocked his door and then gasped as the equally freezing stale air of his apartment hit him. “Jesus,” he breathed again, and put his luggage down carefully, groping around for a light switch. He found it, and flicked it – and nothing happened. Unease gripped at his stomach.

It could have just been that that particular light bulb was blown, Brendon reasoned, and sidled through into his kitchen, tried that light too – nothing. Brendon swore this time, loudly, and then tried the heater, but no matter how much he played with the power source it refused to turn on.

“Shit,” Brendon whispered, and he was less pissed off now, just exhausted and frozen even in his huge, thick coat. He tried picking up his phone but didn’t really expect a dial tone (and he wasn’t pleasantly surprised, either). “Shit,” he said again in a low voice, and blew on the tips of his fingers. The wool of his gloves was scratchy and damp against his palms.

He went back to the doorway and noticed, for the first time, the pile of envelopes shoved under his door, falling across his mat. Red letters, URGENTs and LAST WARNINGs flashed up at him in the dim light and he scowled at them, kicked them aside. He grabbed his bag and guitar again and locked the door behind him, dashed down the stairs and out into the rain.

There was a phone box round the corner; Brendon ran the whole way there and ended up getting soaked anyway. He locked himself in and combed his fingers through his hair, pulling it away from where it was plastered to his face, squeezing out the excess water. Then he paused for a moment, old numbers taking a while to rise up to the surface of his mind, and slotted quarters into the machine, fingers darting out over the cold metal surface.

The phone rang three times, and then four; Brendon was about to give up, when on the seventh a bleary voice said, “Hello?”

Brendon breathed out and sagged a little bit against the wall. “Hi, Spencer,” he said. “It’s me.”

“Brendon!” the voice said. “Where are you calling from today? Rome? No, wait, you’re in London right now, huh? Hey, have you seen the queen?”

“Ha fucking ha,” Brendon told him. “I’m in Chicago, Spence. Down the street from my place.”

“You’re home?” Spencer asked, voice thick with confusion. “I thought you weren’t due back for another week?”

“I came back early,” Brendon said, shifting from foot to foot. “Listen, Spence, they cut my electricity off, and my heat – probably the water, too, the fuckers. Can I come stay at your place?”

“Jesus,” Spencer said. “Why’d they do that?”

“I dunno, I couldn’t pay my bills when I was in Europe, I guess.”

“You know there’s such a thing as the internet, right?” Spencer asked, and his voice drifted across the line thick with amusement. Brendon made a face.

“Yeah, thanks, whatever. You try remembering that shit when you’re spending five days wandering aimlessly around a city and then getting a five AM wake up call because you just had to go on a specific day at a specific time. Come on, Spence, you home?”

“Shit, Bren, I’m not,” Spencer said, sounding startled (as though Brendon hadn’t brought it up, like, _two seconds ago_ ). “My weird cousins are, the ones who’re house-sitting while I’m in New York. I left two days ago, I’m not getting back for another month, Brendon, it’s work. Um, shit, is there anywhere else you can go?”

“I don’t really – I don’t know anyone well enough, besides Cash,” Brendon said, defeat welling up inside him. “And The Cab’s on tour. I guess – I can find a cheap motel or something that might be open—” He checked his watch. It was a little bit past midnight.

“No,” Spencer said firmly. “You can’t wander around – it’s still raining, right? The news said, and.” He stopped, and Brendon hovered uncertainly on the line, shoved a few extra coins into the machine absently. “Besides, you probably don’t have any fucking money. Right?”

This was, unfortunately, vaguely true. Brendon hadn’t really _loved_ Europe, hadn’t even _liked_ it that much, but that hadn’t stopped him from buying every cool thing that caught his attention, and he wasn’t actually that rich to start with. Plus he had – in an act of independence – decided to buy his own early plane ticket home, and while he _had_ money he didn’t know how long he’d be able to put himself up, or how long his landlord would take to get his apartment fixed. Brendon was beginning to regret some decisions he had made on tour that were, he believed, starting to seem considerably misguided. “No,” he muttered, and Spencer breathed out something that could have been a laugh, only worried.

“Shit,” Spencer said, and then went quiet again. When he spoke again, his voice was bright with triumph. “I know! You live pretty close to Ryan! I’ll call Ryan for you, he won’t care if you stay with him for a couple of days, until your landlord fixes up the heat and stuff.”

“Don’t be an idiot, Spencer,” Brendon said. “Ryan _Ross_? Your crazy friend, Ryan Ross?”

“My _best_ friend, Ryan Ross,” Spencer told him, with a note of steel in his voice. “And he’s not crazy. You’ve met him.”

“Yeah, and I thought he was crazy,” Brendon informed Spencer, and then yawned. “He’s the writer, right?”

“He’s not just a writer,” Spencer told him, as if this would somehow bring down the levels of insanity in a person. “He has to do freelance stuff for magazines a lot too, otherwise he’d still be sleeping on my couch. And just because he didn’t want to play video games with you doesn’t mean he’s crazy.”

“No, the fact that he’s _crazy_ means that he’s crazy.” Brendon hesitated, and then said, in a small voice, “You sure he won’t mind?”

“I’ll call him now,” Spencer said, and Brendon could hear him smiling down the line at him. “Call me back in, like, ten minutes?”

“Ten minutes to make one phone call?” Brendon asked.

“Oh, well, you know Ryan,” Spencer said airily. “He’s pretty crazy, really. Ten minutes, Bren!” The dial tone cut in and Brendon sighed, hung up.

Brendon _had_ met Ryan Ross, once or twice, at Spencer’s, and he wasn’t – he wasn’t _really_ crazy. He was just a little bit weird – he had kind of lurked in the background for the whole thing, and he had about thirty scarves on and really elaborately made steampunk fingerless gloves, and he’d been pretty much silent for most of the night until someone brought up some old, obscure musical concept that somehow tied in with literature, and then Ryan had pulled a chair out and straddled it backwards and talked for about twenty minutes without taking a breath. Brendon had been mildly drunk by that stage and trying to beat Spencer’s and Cash’s friend, Jon, in a Guitar Hero battle and he hadn’t really engaged, but it had sounded like Ryan knew what he was talking about anyway, so that was kind of cool.

Apparently Ryan and Spencer had been friends for a ridiculously long period of time, since they were five, or something. Brendon wasn’t really sure how that worked – the only people he had known for that long were family, and he couldn’t bear to be in the same room as them, half the time, which was – he’d been told – a common reaction to relatives. But Ryan and Spencer still hung out all the time, and it struck Brendon as a little strange, but also pretty cool. Spencer talked about Ryan a lot, anyway; new things he was doing, the funny thing he said last week, how he locked himself out of his apartment and instead of coming around to Spencer’s and getting the spare key like a _normal_ person he sat on his front stoop for two and a half hours because he got an idea for a story and had to write it out right there and he ended up getting some mild form of frostbite. Spencer was frequently exasperated with Ryan but in a way that made Brendon grin, because it was clear all through it how much Spencer loved Ryan.

And Brendon liked it when people love other people. He wrote a whole song about it, and everything.

Really, though, despite all Spencer’s love and recommendations, Brendon hardly knew the guy. It was probably a pretty stupid idea to crash at this guy’s house, and probably pretty rude, as well, but Brendon couldn’t bring himself to care. He guessed he would have felt a lot more awkward if he wasn’t soaking wet and shivering and exhausted, and right now he just wanted a bed, more than anything. He was willing to ignore where the bed was as long as it was comfy.

Brendon checked his watch, decided that eight and a half minutes was a long enough wait and dialed Spencer’s number only to be met with a busy tone. He rolled his eyes, waited the last minute and a half and dialed again, but Spencer’s phone was still busy. In the next ten minutes, Brendon tried every few minutes or so with growing disbelief until finally, twenty-three minutes after Spencer told him to call back he finally picks up.

“Sorry,” Spencer said, sounding breathless. “Sorry, he was in kind of a chatty mood.”

“No kidding,” Brendon answered, hoping to convey his wide eyes down through the wires. “What did he say?”

“Yeah, he’s fine with it. You got paper?” Spencer rattled off an address and Brendon scrawled it onto a crumpled piece of notepaper he found in his pocket. “Okay, it’s only a few blocks away, I think, but seriously, try and find a taxi.”

“Yeah,” Brendon scoffed, “Yeah, there’s totally gonna be one lurking around waiting for me to come out. I’ll make a run for it, it’ll be fine.” He hesitated a moment and then said, maybe a little timidly, “You sure he won’t mind?”

“He’s a pretty easygoing guy,” Spencer told him. “And I think he likes having other people in the house, even if he just ends up ignoring them. You’re fine to stay there for a couple of days, Bren, seriously. I wouldn’t send you there if you weren’t.”

“Yeah,” Brendon said. “Yeah, I figured.” He grinned, suddenly. “Thanks, Spence.”

“No worries,” Spencer told him, and then laughed. “Go get some sleep. It’s good that you’re back.”

“I’ll see you soon,” Brendon told him, and hung up.

*

He made his way to Ryan’s place (and he knew the street, thank God, or he could have been lost for hours in this strange, wet dark) in a shambling half-run, half-stride fashion that made the occasional passing people in cars look at him strangely. He tried to get there fast, but he was hampered by his bag and guitar and he was probably going to get soaked anyway. By the time he was on Ryan’s street, fifteen minutes or so later, he was even more bedraggled looking than before, and he gave up on a good first impression and slowed to a walk, shivering and attempting to catch his breath.

He pressed the buzzer for Ryan’s apartment and waited, hopping from foot to foot, until finally a voice said, “H’lo?”

“Uh, hi?” Brendon said, mouth to the speaker so the rain didn’t overpower his voice. “This is Brendon? Urie? Spencer’s friend?”

“Oh, hey,” the voice said, as though it wasn’t expecting him. “Come on up. Third floor, I’ll see you in a sec.”

The door clicked open and Brendon trotted up the stairs, holding his stuff as firmly as he could. Maybe, he hoped uselessly, he would be able to give off the impression of coolness just from the way he held his guitar. He’d been told he had nice hands. Maybe they’d be able to distract from the dripping wet, disheveled state of the rest of him.

Brendon knocked and waited, and a few seconds later Ryan opened it and smiled at him. He was wearing a light sweatshirt and plaid pajama pants with a pair of green checkered slippers identical to what Brendon’s grandpa used to wear, and his hair was curly and messy. He smiled at Brendon, kind of welcoming, and at that moment he didn’t look shy or uncertain or lonerish or even interested, he just looked strangely kind.

“Hi,” Brendon said.

“Wow,” Ryan replied. “You’re really wet.”

Brendon looked down at himself involuntarily, even though he knew exactly how soaked he was. “It’s raining really hard,” he offered, a little lamely.

Ryan smiled. “Yeah,” he agreed. “Come in. Did you want a shower?”

Brendon’s eyes lit up and he stepped in, so Ryan could close the door. Ryan’s apartment was really warm, cozy. “Could I? That would be awesome.”

“Sure,” Ryan said, “You got clothes to change into?”

Brendon held up his bag. “Smelly tour clothes, sorry,” he said. “I, uh, I didn’t think to – I mean, I forgot to get new clothes from my apartment. It was kind of dark.”

Ryan nodded. “They shut off your electricity, Spence said?” His face darkened. “Bastards. They tried to do that to me, once.” He nodded again, with a grimly satisfied expression on his face that made Brendon wonder briefly if the bones of said bastards were now rotting in a basement somewhere. “Anyway, you can stay here for as long as you need, I’ve got a spare room.”

Brendon ducked his head, and grinned. “That’s really – thanks, that’s really good of you, and I know it’s really late, but. I didn’t know what to do. Thanks.”

Ryan shrugged. “Friend of Spencer’s, friend of mine, all that crap. I wasn’t sleeping, anyway.” He looked at Brendon sideways and the corner of his mouth twitched. “You could wear something of mine, too, if you wanted something clean. I mean, I have friends in bands who always complain about wearing the same clothes again and again.” Brendon hesitated, and Ryan said, “It’s no problem.”

Brendon nodded, suddenly awkward again. “Thanks.”

“Here, put your bags in there. I’ll just grab you something.” Ryan directed him into a plain white room with a bed made up neatly in the corner. There was a print of sunflowers hanging on the wall, yellow and real, and when Brendon went up to touch it with cautious hands he realized it wasn’t a print, after all; he could feel the paint scratchy under his fingertips.

Ryan came back in with a red sweater and a pair of stripey black and white pajama pants, and thick green socks, and pointed Brendon into the bathroom. Brendon meant to take a short shower, he really did, but he ended up standing under the spray for nearly twenty minutes, feeling his body warm up again, the tired ache of his muscles relaxing. He got out finally, and pulled on Ryan’s clothes – they were soft, well-worn but still warm, and there was a faint scent lingering about them; probably Ryan’s detergent, Brendon thought.

He wandered out, heavy and warm and content. Ryan was curled up on a green couch, reading. “Good night,” Brendon said. “Thanks again.”

Ryan looked up and smiled, a quick flash. “Sleep well,” he said.

Brendon returned to his bedroom; the blinking clock radio on the bedside table said 1:08 and Brendon yawned, the exhaustion that he’d been full of all day settling into something softer, a warm fatigue that was content with the knowledge that it was going to get some well-deserved rest soon.

The bed was warm and crisp. _Last night I was in London_ , Brendon thought, and the concept of that strange, old city felt far away from this warm room, this steady rain.

*

He woke up to a grey light, and the sound of rain still falling outside his window. Brendon groaned and twisted over in his blankets, pulling them up over his head, even though he knew that he wouldn’t be able to sleep again now. He could already feel awkwardness settling around him, having to emerge from a stranger’s room to say hi to the stranger himself, but he was starting to wake up now, and it wasn’t as though Brendon was a particularly shy person.

He rolled out of bed and scrubbed his hand through his hair, yawning. His face was stubbly, still; Brendon guessed he should probably shave soon, before he took the ‘traveling musician’ look straight through into the ‘sad teenage boy trying desperately to grow a beard’ look. The house was still warm, and it had the clean, cozy air to it that all houses do when it’s raining outside and they’re comfortable. Brendon kept his (Ryan’s) socks on, though, walked out into the main living room that he remembered from last night.

Ryan was still curled up on the couch, though there was a afghan wrapped around him now, and he’d pulled on a crudely made and hideous Christmas jumper. His hair was sticking up at every angle, and he was watching a commercial for a new vacuum cleaner with a disturbingly high level of interest. Brendon tried really hard not to laugh, but he giggled a little bit behind his hand and Ryan looked up and saw him.

“Morning,” Ryan said. “You sleep well?”

“Uh, yeah,” Brendon answered, a little caught off-guard by the strange, easy formality in the way Ryan spoke. “Did you?”

Ryan smiled sheepishly. “I fell asleep on the couch,” he admitted. “And then I woke up and was cold, so.” He tugged at his sweatshirt and then looked down at it, seemingly noticing it for the first time. Brendon’s own smile widened, automatically, as Ryan’s cheeks went pink. “Uh, I think Jon might have left this here, last time he was over. I don’t.” He stopped, stared at the ground.

“Oh, yeah,” Brendon said. “So you’re saying you’re one of those cold-hearted people who don’t love ugly Christmas jumpers? I don’t know if I can talk to you anymore if that’s the case, man, that’s just mean.”

Ryan laughed, short and surprised. “I guess they’re okay,” he said, “It’s the Christmas carols in every department store I can’t stand. Warbled Judy Garland covers by the newest chick who’s managed to smile her way into the music industry everywhere you turn, and the barbershop quartets made up of small children with toothy grins.”

“Oh, God,” Brendon gasped in pseudo-horror, and grinned. “And it’s October, too, I bet we’ve got about four more days of peace before they bring them out.”

“And then Easter eggs the day after New Year’s,” Ryan agreed, and smiled at his feet. There was a moment’s silence, and then theme music cut through the air and Brendon’s eyes widened.

“Dude,” he said, “ _Dude_. You’re watching Transformers? That’s so fucking cool, oh my God.”

“They play the old series at the weirdest times!” Ryan said, brightening. “I found this one by accident, and so I structure work around it.” He tilted his head as if considering this for the first time and added, “Which is pretty lame, I guess. But hey, it’s one of the good things about working from home?”

“Hell yes,” Brendon said. “Move over, come on, this is like going back to my childhood, seriously.”

“Going back?” Ryan asked dryly, and Brendon laughed and hopped onto the couch – Ryan shook the afghan out so Brendon could sit underneath it too. He slid further down to the arm of the couch as they watched, and as the second episode went into the third he wasn’t even really aware of falling asleep again.

*

Brendon woke up to find Ryan poking his chest with increasing annoyance, face way too close to Brendon’s for comfort. “Blargh,” Brendon yelped, and jolted backwards, and Ryan handed a phone to him without a word and walked out of the room. Brendon noticed the sky was getting darker again, and the TV was playing the five o’clock news.

“Hello?” he said into the phone.

“Brendon, seriously, you need to get a cell,” Spencer informed him. “D’you know how hard it is to get Ryan to pick up the phone when he’s working?”

“I don’t want a cell,” Brendon said automatically, brain still struggling to wake up.

“Yeah, I know,” Spencer said. “Is everything okay, then?”

“Um, yeah,” Brendon said. “I accidentally slept all day – shit, I probably missed my landlord. Fuck.”

“Ryan won’t mind you staying another night,” Spencer answered dismissively. “He’s probably forgotten you don’t actually live here by now.”

“He actually seemed pretty normal,” Brendon told him, surprised. “I mean, no weird comments, only a few funny expressions.”

“You’re lucky, then,” Spencer said, with a weary tone. “He’s writing at the moment, so I need you to get him to eat.”

“Uh,” Brendon said. “What?”

“Normally I check every few days to make sure he’s alive and shit,” Spencer said patiently. “But I can’t do that right now, and you’re right there. So get up, and go to the fridge.”

“Spence—” Brendon began.

“Brendon,” Spencer said back, sickly sweet. Brendon sighed and stood up, yawning a little bit.

“Okay, fridge,” Brendon said. “Kitchen is – oh wait, found it.” He opened the fridge and peered in. “Wow, dude. Did a vegetable patch move into this place?”

“Ryan goes grocery shopping every now and then with great enthusiasm,” Spencer told him. “Only he then forgets to use all the stuff. Okay, you’re vegetarian, right?”

“Sort of,” Brendon said. “Oooh, beef jerky!”

“Real food first,” Spencer told him, firmly. “I want some beef jerky, anyway, save a bit for me.”

“No can do, my friend,” Brendon said happily, ripping open the packet and tearing into it. “Mmmn, this is really good.”

“You suck as a vegetarian,” Spencer informed him.

“You suck as someone who is… not having beef jerky right now,” Brendon told him, and then moaned happily around it just to piss Spencer off a little bit more.

“I hate you,” Spencer said. “Once you’ve finished your meat orgy, d’you think you could look in there for some baby spinach?”

Brendon rustled around in the fridge for a moment and procured a packet of baby spinach, cunningly hidden behind the orange juice. “Got it,” he said.

“Now soy beans, somewhere up there,” Spencer told him, sounding bored, and Brendon made small, affirmative noises, phone pressed between his cheek and his shoulder. “Any leftover rice? Check in old ice cream tubs – yeah, okay, that then. And, uh, tofu, somewhere? Alright, that’s all from there.”

“Jesus Christ,” Brendon said, clutching the various ingredients in his arms until he could stumble over to the counter and dump them. “Okay, what now?”

“Onions, olive oil, and balsamic vinegar. Check the cupboards.” Brendon heard clicking in the background; the asshole was totally checking his emails or multi-tasking at the same time. He scowled and started chopping the onions.

Spencer was a good cook and Brendon was a sort of okay one, and by the time he’d finished preparing the meal according to Spencer’s instructions it was a strange kind of stirfry, but it tasted really good. Brendon served it in two bowls and said, “What now?”

“Uh, take it in?” Spencer had his ‘you’re being stupid while I’m talking to you, please stop’ voice on. “He’s in his study thing, probably. Down the corridor, first door on the right.”

“Um, dude,” Brendon said, “Okay, staying at his house, sure, serving him food? I dunno.”

“Well, you just ate his beef jerky,” Spencer pointed out. “You gotta make up for that somehow.”

“Like he’d even notice,” Brendon sulked, but he hung up and took the bowl into Ryan’s ‘study’ anyway.

It was the first room in the house that was really messy; two huge bookcases in the corner and more piles of books scattered everywhere, and a couch with two huge piles of typewritten paper spread across it. On the walls were stuck photos and bits of paper with Ryan’s spiky handwriting. Ryan’s desk was covered in books and newspapers and more paper, and a typewriter shoved off to one side, and the laptop that he was working on.

Or, well, ‘working on’. Brendon saw four seconds of Solitaire before Ryan’s head swung around and he frantically alt-tabbed to a word document.

“Uh,” Ryan said. “I’m, uh.”

“I brought you some food,” Brendon said, passing him the bowl. “Spencer told me to make it, so I guess you like it, or whatever. And if you put the black four on the red five, then you’ve got room for another king.”

Ryan clicked back to the game guiltily and followed Brendon’s advice. “Writer’s block,” he offered up as explanation. “Or, you know, a small case of it. I can’t work out what goes next.”

“Yeah, I know the feeling,” Brendon said, and – deciding he wasn’t interrupting anything – settled cross-legged on the floor, eating his own food.

“You’re a musician, right?” Ryan cocked his head, surveyed Brendon curiously. “Spencer said you just got back from Europe.”

“Five months there,” Brendon nodded. “Which pissed my label off, because they’re like – most people go across Europe really quickly, you know? But I wanted to go to all the old weird places, or the ones that don’t get many touring bands, and catch trains and stuff as much as possible. Old-fashioned and stuff.” He laughed a little self-consciously, but Ryan was smiling like he knew what Brendon meant. “It was. Strange. I’m kind of glad to be back.”

“I guess it would get really lonely,” Ryan said, quietly. “I like being on my own, but five months is a long time.”

Brendon laughed, kind of pointlessly, and nodded. “It was, sort of. I mean, I had the crew? But I didn’t know them very well, and they mostly hung out together, and stuff. And I don’t like being on my own, much.”

“Why a solo musician then?” Ryan asked, and there was genuine curiosity in his voice. Brendon shrugged.

“I was never cool enough to be in a band, I guess,” he grinned, and made a face. “And then I got used to playing on my own. No creative differences, y’know?”

“Sure,” Ryan said, and laughed, took a bite of his food. “This is really good, thanks.”

“It’s your food,” Brendon told him, shrugging, and then hesitated. “I – I was asleep, so I didn’t call my landlord—”

“Oh, hey,” Ryan said, eyes widening. “You can stay as long as you need. It’s no trouble.”

Brendon looked down, and smiled. “Cool,” he said.

*

The next morning it wasn’t raining anymore. Brendon went back to his apartment (still freezing) and picked up some fresh clothes, and a few things to work with, including his laptop, just in case. Then he borrowed Ryan’s phone to call his landlord, who was not very sympathetic as to his plight and said that if Brendon could have his bills paid by Monday (and it was Friday, which meant Brendon wouldn’t be able to get to the bank over the weekend) he could probably have everything turned back on in a week. Which meant it was going to be more like two weeks, because Brendon would have to wait for his last paycheck that was due to come through from the tour, and really this whole thing was turning into a vague disaster.

He went and sought Ryan out, tried to ask him but Ryan just flapped his hand at him in a vague manner and said something along the lines of “seriously, don’t worry about it – is describing the lights on the Vegas Strip too Creative Writing 101?” Brendon did a laundry run instead, tried to keep out of Ryan’s way, but then at about one he realized he hadn’t eaten, which meant Ryan _definitely_ hadn’t, so he went and bought them both sandwiches and then ended up sitting in Ryan’s study listening to one of Ryan’s CDs while Ryan wrote at his desk.

That night, he put on a DVD – still a little self-consciously, feeling too much at home in this stranger’s place – and stretched out on the couch to watch it. A little way into it, though, Ryan wandered out and handed Brendon a can of Pepsi and they watched the rest of it together.

*

Ryan was already working by the time Brendon woke up (pretty late, to be fair – half past twelve) the next day – Brendon stuck his head around the door of Ryan’s study to see if he wanted some breakfast/lunch and Ryan raised one hand above his head and made a quiet, ambiguous noise, so Brendon left him to his own devices. He stayed in his room and caught up on a bunch of emails on his laptop, including about four from the record label asking where he was and would he please come in to a meeting next week and one stilted one from his mom, asking in too formal language if he’d had a nice trip (he didn’t reply, not to that one).

Then he pulled his guitar out and closed the door, just in case Ryan might be put off by the noise. He hadn’t actually played since London, and he played some old songs, both his and other people’s, couldn’t be bothered trying to come up with anything new.

He forgot about eating, though, like he normally did when he was playing, and finally at around five-thirty Ryan opened the door and peered in at him.

“Oh,” Ryan said, “I didn’t mean to bother you. Sorry.”

“I’m not bothered,” Brendon said, grinning a little bit because Ryan’s tone was apologetic but he was lingering in the doorway in a rather obvious ‘please keep me company’ manner. “How’s your writing going?”

Ryan made a face. “Not so good,” he admitted. “I’m stuck on – there’s this character, and he’s just. He’s not sounding right. I don’t know.”

“What _are_ you writing?” Brendon asked. Ryan made another face, which was interesting; Brendon remembered Ryan mostly as having a perfect monotone and a consistently blank face, but in the past few days he’d just been quiet, and he had a series of increasingly twisted-up, complex facial expressions that made his feelings vaguely clear but also made Brendon want to crack up laughing every time he saw them.

“I think – I’m pretty sure it’s a short story,” Ryan said, a little uncertainly. “But, I mean, my last novel, I thought was gonna be like 3000 words, so. It would be useful if it was a short story, because I’m supposed to have my next collection in to my publishers in, like, two months, and it would complete it, I’m pretty sure. So here’s hoping?” He shrugged, self-conscious, and Brendon nodded.

“I’ll cross my fingers,” he said.

Ryan smiled and said, “You want to go out and get something to eat?” and yeah, Brendon did, actually.

*

He woke up the next morning at half past six to the sound of Ryan clattering softly around in the kitchen. It took him a moment to properly process the sound, but then he slid out of bed and went to investigate. He didn’t have the talent of falling back asleep after waking up, anyway, so he might as well get up.

Ryan was making coffee, staring blearily at the pot bubbling slowly away. “Morning?” Brendon yawned, and he didn’t mean for it to come out as a question, but it did.

“Oh,” Ryan said, jumping a little bit. He stared at Brendon as though at a ghost. “Is it?”

“Uh, yeah,” Brendon said, drawing a bit closer. “Almost seven, I think.”

“I couldn’t sleep,” Ryan murmured. “I think – I think I woke up at one, or something.”

“Dude,” Brendon said, surprised, “I thought you only went to bed at midnight?”

“Yeah,” Ryan said, and looked away. He repeated, quietly, “I couldn’t sleep.”

“Writing?” Brendon asked, and smiled, because he knew what it was like to get an idea for something and not be able to rest until you got it sorted.

But Ryan shook his head and said, “No,” looking out the window. His face looked tight and strained and he drummed his fingers restlessly on the counter, an uneven beat veering into different time signatures.

“Okay,” Brendon said, exhaled. The coffee was ready and Ryan only stared at it, as if he wasn’t quite sure what to do with it, so Brendon took it off the stove and made two cups. “Sugar?” he asked, and Ryan shook his head, so he added milk and passed it over. Ryan curled long fingers around it, gently, like it would break, and ducked his head almost as much as he raised the cup. Brendon watched his slow, too careful movements and wondered. Ryan looked unearthly and strange in the only light that was turned on in the kitchen. Brendon looked away and took a long gulp of his coffee.

Ryan pushed a hand through his hair, curling his fingers so that his knuckles went a little bit white, and he looked younger than normal. Brendon swallowed hard and then said, “Hey, it’s Saturday. Why don’t we go to the farmers’ market?”

Ryan looked up, smiled.

*

There weren’t many people at the markets that morning, even though they’d had to walk and it was almost eight by the time they’d gotten there. It was still freezing cold, the air frosty and their breaths creating small clouds, but the sky was a light blue and there were no rain clouds in sight. At the market, Ryan looked around with huge eyes, too surprised to speak properly, and Brendon said, “Haven’t you ever been here before?”

“Uh, I think, like, once or twice?” Ryan responded, gazing around. “But it changes every time, it’s—” he trailed off and wandered over to a stall with bread and Brendon followed him. The bread was still warm, casting off the earthy scent of flower and Ryan bought two loaves and Brendon bought four rolls for their lunch one day. Ryan looked better out in the daylight, less ill, and some of the tension was starting to disappear from his face.

More people started to arrive after a while, and Brendon lost Ryan in the crowd. He bought some fruit, a bit more spinach, because what with making the stirfry-thing pretty much every day they were starting to run out. He didn’t have much cash on him, though, so mostly he just wandered around, keeping an eye out for Ryan.

When Ryan finally did reappear, he seemed back to normal (or as normal as he got, anyway); he was beaming and loaded down with about six plastic and cloth bags, huge, leafy fronds poking out the ends, fruits and vegetables that Brendon had never seen before and a carton of free range eggs nestled precariously on top of some celery. Brendon laughed out loud, staring and Ryan grinned back at him, clearly delighted.

“I love fresh food,” Ryan said, and there was such childish glee in the way he said it that Brendon found himself suddenly bent over double laughing, holding onto his stomach. Ryan blinked pleasantly at him, confused but friendly enough, and Brendon grabbed him around the neck in a spontaneous hug. Ryan looked surprised, but he managed to juggle his bags enough to pat at Brendon’s back and Brendon started laughing again.

“Ryan,” he said, “You don’t _cook_. How on earth are you gonna eat all that?”

Ryan shrugged. “I’ll find a way,” he said, but he looked a little mournfully at his bags and Brendon’s smile dimmed, softened.

“Worst comes to worst, I’ll go rummaging in recipe books and find _something_ to do with them,” Brendon offered, and Ryan laughed.

“See?” he said. “Nothing to worry about.”

“Yeah, for _you_ ,” Brendon said.

Ryan shrugged. “Let’s go home,” he said, lightly, and Brendon fell into step beside him.

*

Ryan went to bed when they got home, apparently all tired out, and Brendon called Cash to see if he was back in town from The Cab’s tour. Cash was, apparently, as of yesterday afternoon, and Brendon arranged to meet him for lunch. It still left him with a few hours to kill, so he slumped on Ryan’s couch and channel surfed, ending up watching some terrible reality TV show. At twelve-thirty he put on his coat and gloves again and went out, casting a wary eye at the sky where clouds were starting to gather again, and found a rock he could kick all the way to where he’d promised to meet Cash.

Cash was already there when he arrived, digging into the largest sandwich Brendon had ever seen. He grinned and stood up when Brendon arrived in the doorway and then proceeded to squeeze the breath out of him, until Brendon pinched slyly at the ticklish spot between his ribs and Cash squawked, let him go.

“Brendon Urie,” Cash said, and then laughed loudly, abruptly, scuffing a hand through his hair.

Brendon said, “Cash Colligan,” and then, “What sandwich is that? I want one.”

*

  
Cash talked about the tour for about an hour, non-stop, smiling so hard Brendon thought it must be giving his muscles a real work out, but he recognized the excitement at starting to finally be noticed, and The Cab sounded like they were doing really well, especially with the whole first national tour paid by the label and everything. Eventually, though, Cash raised his eyebrows and said, “So. Europe.”

“Still there, last time I checked,” Brendon said, and tried to take a bite of his lunch without letting any of the good parts dropping out the bottom.

“Well, you’d know,” Cash told him. “Come on, how was it?”

“It was good,” Brendon said, and shrugged. Cash stared at him and Brendon rolled his eyes. “You know, it was pretty – it was, yeah, it was pretty awesome in some places, sure. The Eiffel Tower was great, and, uh, it was raining in Rome, but we saw the Coliseum and that was really cool, yeah.” He stopped and looked out the window, tapping his fingernails on the edge of the table. “It’s raining,” he remarked absently.

“I’ll give you a lift home,” Cash said, and then, hesitantly, “Hey, man, you okay?”

“Hmmn?” Brendon said, and then turned away from the window and smiled. “I’m fine, dude, just tired. And my fucking landlord turned off my electricity and shit.”

“Oh, man,” Cash said, making a face. “That sucks. Hey, d’you need a place to stay? I mean, y’know I just got back, so my place is a bit musty, but there’s room, if you need it.”

“Nah,” Brendon said. “Nah, you know, I’m okay.”

*

By the time he got back it was half past three – the rain had cleared up for a while and they’d gone walking, discovered a new music store and mucked around in there for an hour or so, and then Cash had found a costume store and they’d both bought fake moustaches and paraded around town for a while. Ryan was already awake again, keyboard clattering in his study, and Brendon guessed that either he’d managed to get on top of his writer’s block or he was just indulging in one of about a hundred different procrastination methods he’s perfected (Brendon had identified them all in the past four days – Ryan wasn’t that good at concealing when he wasn’t doing work). Brendon shouted out a greeting and then froze, wondered if that was a stupid thing to do, but a few moments later Ryan wandered out and smiled cautiously at him.

“Hi,” he said, and his voice was casual and unconcerned but he was twisting his fingers behind his back. “The theatre around the block’s doing a film noir marathon thing tonight. Wanna come?”

Brendon didn’t know film noir very well, but Ryan’s eyes were bright and it wasn’t like he had anything planned, anyway. “Sure,” he said, and Ryan’s smile widened.

“Awesome,” he said, “I’m gonna go and try and work for a bit longer – it starts at six-thirty, okay?”

Brendon nodded and Ryan drifted back off into his part of the house, humming to himself. He had the slightly distracted air to him today, Brendon noticed, but not the intent, focused look he’d had that had made him work for half the day yesterday. It wasn’t so hard to understand Ryan, Brendon thought, or at least not so hard to get to know his patterns. Brendon wasn’t that fond of reliability, but he liked this about Ryan, liked that he wasn’t predictable but Brendon still knew how to react around him.

Europe had been so different, he thought, maybe that was what was keeping him in this quiet, unsettled mood at the moment; there had been no familiar landmarks or faces, and he’d felt like he was playing to an empty venue every night even if it _had_ (on occasion) been full. For the first time since he’d recorded his first album, the words he’d written were starting to sound empty. Brendon wondered suddenly if Ryan ever had that feeling, reading over stuff he’d written in the past, if he’d ever been filled with the same restless anxiety that maybe he wasn’t doing anything worthwhile, that maybe his parents had been right.

Not that Brendon knew anything about Ryan’s parents. He sighed and flung himself on the couch, switched on the TV and settled down to wait until Ryan emerged again.

*

At six he made them both sandwiches with the stuff they’d bought in the morning and brought them into Ryan, settled down on the floor to wait while Ryan ate and finished writing whatever he was working on at the moment. He started off sitting a little way away from Ryan’s chair but eventually slumped sideways until he was lying on his stomach, flipping through a huge book of photos Ryan had left on the floor.

At about quarter past, Ryan reached down and scratched absently at Brendon’s head and said, “Ready to go?” Brendon got up and they dumped their plates in the sink and made their way down to the movie theatre, which seriously was just around the block, and Ryan bought seven packets of candy despite the fact that they’d just eaten. Brendon rolled his eyes but chipped in for soda and they both almost tripped on their way up the faux-velvet stairs into the theatre, arms laden with food.

The room was about half full; most people had brought blankets and Brendon realized suddenly that that might have been a good idea – there was a slight chilly breeze coming through the vent and if it was going to last for ages he’d probably end up sleeping anyway. They picked seats towards the back and settled themselves, lifted up the armrest between them for “better access to the candy,” Ryan said, grinning.

Brendon hadn’t seen any of the movies that began to show, and he was surprised by how much he liked them; the dark shots of rain, the trench coats and glowering men and cigar tips glowing in the night, the girls with short hair and red mouths. He rested his chin in his hand, propping his elbow on the armrest to his left, Ryan on his right, and the cinema was quiet but for the rustle of paper every now and then and the movie itself, and Brendon surprised himself with how much fun it was.

Intermission was at midnight and he and Ryan both went out to go to the bathroom and stock up on popcorn and coffee, as well as discuss animatedly which had been the better film out of the three shown so far (Ryan thought the second, Brendon the third). When they went back in, the ache in Brendon’s bones from sitting still for so long had eased and he was awake again when the first credits came up.

The second movie, this time, was set in Europe, a wild goose chase across the continent, and Brendon slowly slipped lower and lower in his chair. A girl smoked outside the Moulin Rouge’s flickering black and white lights and said, huskily, “You gotta know how to survive here, James, if you’re ever gonna catch your guy. And I don’t think you do.”

Brendon exhaled, and Ryan made a small noise and slid a little bit, curling his legs up beneath him and lying against Brendon’s shoulder, head resting there. It took Brendon a few moments to realize Ryan was asleep, and then he laughed quietly, a surprised gust that stirred the hairs on Ryan’s head and arranged himself comfortably enough. Ryan was warm and pleasantly heavy against Brendon’s side, and when Brendon returned to the movie he’d lost that twisting, ugly feeling in his stomach.

*

They stopped by McDonalds on the way home. Ryan bitched about huge corporations and ripping off the tiny, independent cafés and really bad food on top of that, but then he cast kind of guilty eyes at the dessert menu and Brendon said, “It’s not even six in the morning, yet!” and Ryan tilted his chin up defiantly and said, “I like McFlurry’s, okay, kill me or whatever,” and they both bought a ridiculously large amount and retired to a corner booth.

They talked about the movies for a while, and Ryan informed Brendon calmly that his taste was atrocious, and the second was still clearly the best – Brendon said, “What do you know, you slept _through_ the last two.” Then they somehow drifted on to mutual friends and the various crazy shit they’d been talked into doing, and then writing and Their Art (and Brendon could hear the capitals in Ryan’s voice when he said it, grinning kind of stupidly) and traveling.

And kind of inevitably (Brendon had been, on some level, waiting for it ever since Ryan stopped talking about the time he and Spencer went to France) Ryan cocked his head and asked, quietly, “Why didn’t you like Europe?”

“What?” Brendon said, and took an automatic bite of his hamburger, chewing slowly.

“Europe,” Ryan repeated. “You’re kind of weird about it, you know.”

“Um,” Brendon said, and looked out the window. He’d known Ryan properly for not even a week; he was staying at Ryan’s house and having fun, but it was kind of strange of Ryan to just come out with that out of the blue. Ryan didn’t _know_ Brendon – how could he possibly decide what’s weird for Brendon or not?

But Ryan said, “Brendon,” in a firm sort of way, and Brendon looked back and Ryan was watching him carefully, the corner of his mouth just lifted in a smile. _I really like you,_ Brendon thought abruptly, and something swooped in his stomach. He shrugged, buying time.

“It was kind of lonely,” he said, eventually.

“Yeah,” Ryan agreed, “But you were there for five months. Nobody really does that anymore, Brendon. And you could have gotten out of there any time you wanted.”

Brendon scratched his chin, the stubble prickling at his hands, and stared at his plate. “Yeah, I guess,” he said, and paused. Ryan stole some of his fries and waited, and Brendon wished he wasn’t so goddamn patient. “Um, I was with. My family, for about a month before the tour started, and they kind of. We had a fight, towards the end, and then I needed to stay away from America. Even though they’re back in Vegas, and I’m here, it was – it was too close. So I talked to my A&R guy and he’s pretty used to dealing with crazy musicians, and shit, so that was okay. And then – I dunno, I guess I thought Europe would be different. Or would make me different. But it was the same, and then on top of that, I missed friends and stuff who’d normally be able to say that it’d be okay.”

He wanted to laugh, to give it a bit of lightness, but it stuck in his throat and the best he could manage was a crooked smile, looking up at Ryan for the first time since his spiel. Ryan’s eyes were warm and he didn’t smile but there was a sort of kindness playing about his mouth, and Brendon didn’t feel like Ryan was doing the sympathetic, ‘poor old Brendon’ route. Which Brendon liked.

“Are you – what was the fight about?” Ryan asked finally, a little hesitant, and then he added quickly, “You don’t have to tell me, if you don’t want—”

“Oh, it’s okay,” Brendon said, and made an awkward dismissive gesture with his hand, even though saying it aloud still made his stomach curl up a little bit. “My mom and dad were never really completely happy about the whole dropping out of college and doing music thing in the first place, and then I, uh, came out and stuff, and yeah. They’re pretty religious.”

“Oh,” Ryan said, quietly, and then he suddenly stood up and scooted around the table, slid in next to Brendon. Brendon should have been expecting it, really, but it still caught him by surprise when Ryan hugged him, firm and confident, and Ryan was really, really warm, and he was the first person who’d touched Brendon properly in five months, and Brendon couldn’t help it, leaned into him with a barely audible sigh.

“It was a pretty stupid thing to tell them, really,” he mumbled, eventually, when the silence was getting a little too long, and Ryan pulled away, shook his head.

“I think it was brave,” Ryan said.

*

Brendon was already stumbling on his feet by the time they got home, despite the industrial strength coffee they’d been drinking all night, but Ryan was wide-eyed and chattering. He didn’t get like that very often, and besides, Brendon told himself, if he went straight off to bed it might have seemed like he was all awkward about the conversation in McDonalds. He let Ryan lead them into his study instead, with two bowls of muesli and yogurt, and sat on the floor with him (he wasn’t sure why they weren’t just in the living room, really, but he was too tired to question it) and let Ryan talk, hands moving a little bit, flying up and down as though he was trying to restrain himself. Ryan talked about Spencer, and how they’d moved to Chicago together for college (and his eyes darkened a little bit; when Brendon discovered they’d both grown up in Vegas Ryan seemed unwilling to talk about it), and then about how he was slowly going from being a fulltime journalist to part time (which he was now) and how eventually he hoped he’d be able to just write what he wanted all day long.

It was all interesting, and Brendon didn’t mean to fall asleep, really, but he rested his head against the wall and the next thing he knew he was opening his eyes and the room was dark, and there was a blanket draped over him. He checked his watch, squinting in the dark light, and realized it was half past twelve and he’d slept all day, but he could hear faint noise coming from the living room, so he stood up, still swathed in the blanket and now beginning to notice how uncomfortably stiff he was, and went to investigate.

Ryan was watching TV, some documentary, but he waved Brendon over and said, “Are you hungry?” Brendon probably was, but he wasn’t awake enough to tell, yet, so he shook his head and then snuggled down next to Ryan in his blanket and promptly fell asleep again.

This time, though, when he woke up the next morning Ryan was sleeping next to him, a lazy arm thrown around his shoulders.

*

The next day, Brendon opened his inbox to find a brief missive from Cash asking if he wanted to go to a show tonight, and an email from his landlord saying that his apartment would be back to normal in two days, apologies for the inconvenience. Brendon blinked at the screen for a moment and then shut it down, stretched upwards and yawned.

Ryan was in his study, writing with his glasses on (Ryan’s eyesight was pretty bad at times, Brendon knew now, but he hated wearing glasses so he only wore them when he was especially tired and trying to work). He was scribbling in a journal today, the computer idle beside him, and he looked up and smiled absently when Brendon came in. Brendon settled on the floor, though, and waited until Ryan hummed a greeting before he told him about his apartment.

“Oh,” Ryan said, looking surprised. “Oh, okay. Um, well that’s good for you.”

“Um, yeah,” Brendon said, “So I’ll be out of your hair, soon.” Ryan nodded, face blank, and there was an awkward kind of silence, the first real one since Brendon had been staying with Ryan. Ryan smiled, finally, seemingly for lack of anything better to do, and Brendon laughed in response, apropos of nothing. “Hey,” he said, “I’m meeting Cash for a show tonight, some band he likes. D’you want to come along?”

“I have a dinner with my publisher,” Ryan said, ruefully. He glanced at his watch and added, “But we could go out for a while now, if you liked? I’m kinda hungry.”

“Dude, we have to eat all those goddamn vegetables you bought first,” Brendon warned, mouth twitching, and Ryan stood up, slid closer to him, face innocent.

“Brendon,” he said, and grabbed Brendon’s arm, staring at him with huge eyes. “Bren, I want fries. I want fries and, and, fucking _ice cream_.”

“It’s like, ten degrees outside,” Brendon said, but he could feel his eyes widening and he giggled a little, said, “I’ll grab my coat.”

They ended up at some playground with a lemon gelato each and frozen hands. Ryan walked with exaggerated caution on a chest-high brick wall that bordered a path and Brendon went on the swing, kicked his legs up high and then jumped off, arms spread wide for an impressive landing. They had a minor scuffle trying to get up to the top of the slippery-dip first, and just as Ryan reached the top and crowed Brendon withdrew some hidden agility and swung himself around the side and half onto Ryan’s lap, sending them both bumping down the slide screeching. Brendon slid right off, no thanks to Ryan’s flailing legs, and onto the bark chips, and Ryan blinked down at him, and offered a hand to help him up.

Then they went into the city center for dinner and walked along the streets with falafel rolls, ducking into music stores and debating the merits of various albums. Ryan lingered in the country music section of one for longer than Brendon had expected, and ended up buying some album with a picture of hay bales on the front and some girl on the back of a truck looking mournful.

“Country, Ross?” Brendon asked, mouth twitching. “Really?”

Ryan shrugged and said, “This was one of my dad’s favourite albums.”

The past tense didn’t escape Brendon, but Ryan’s face was guarded and Brendon didn’t say anything, just stepped closer and let their shoulders bump when they walked. He was surprised and vaguely disappointed when he realized it was nearly seven and he had to go meet Cash; Ryan shrugged, said he had to meet his publisher soon, anyway.

There was a strange moment when they both had their hands in their pockets and grinned stupidly at each other as they said goodbye, and Brendon was unsure of himself for a moment before he thought _fuck it_ and launched himself forward, pulled Ryan into a hug. Ryan didn’t mind, anyway, just hugged him back easily, humming some old song under his breath.

*

The band was pretty good, although the lyrics made Brendon cringe a little. About halfway through the set he worked his way out of the crowd and went to go get a drink at the bar, because if he wasn’t too caught up in the feel of the mosh he liked to watch a band actually perform, and it was easier to do that if you had a bit of distance. The drummer was actually really good, with fast, tight rhythms, and Brendon tapped his fingers on his knee in accompaniment.

Cash came and found him after the set and they sat on the stools and shouted to each other over the music of the next band, some hardcore act that Brendon quickly decided was all screaming, no music. He told Cash, and Cash rolled his eyes and declared him an indie snob, and then they had to have a long and over the top argument about what exactly constituted good screamo, until Brendon was laughing too much to continue and Cash said his throat was a little bit sore.

The most surreal moment of the night came when a girl approached Brendon to smile and tell him she’d liked his new album a lot, how different and similar it was at the same time from his first one, and when he was going to tour in the States again. Brendon shrugged that off with a “when I’m not a zombie anymore,” but talked to her for a while, because she seemed to get it and also seemed to genuinely want to talk about the music, wasn’t flirting with him in the slightest. It was still a bit weird, though; Brendon wasn’t used to being recognized at all, yet, let alone at a pop punk/screamo show, and Cash watched the conversation with that slight grin that meant he was probably going to mock Brendon later.

Whatever. Brendon liked talking about music, and if he got a little over-excited sometimes, well, he only accidentally poked himself in the eye once. Cash got that look on his face straight away, though, the same one he gets when he’s got a really good hand in poker and thinks he’s being amazingly subtle. Brendon glared at him.

By the time the girl had left, and Cash and Brendon had hung out at the bar some more and the band had packed up and they’d put on one of those shitty mixes on the speakers it was almost one in the morning, and Cash decided it was time to head home, because both of their sleep schedules were fucked up enough after touring as it was, and Brendon followed him obediently. He was a little tipsy and a lot tired, and he swayed on the pavement, leaning heavily against Cash. Cash laughed and slung a warm arm around him, and drove him back home (Ryan’s place. _Ryan’s_ place).

When he opened the door with the spare key from under the doormat, he was greeted with the sound of his own voice. He blinked, startled, but he knew those chords and those words and yeah, it was track four off of his first album. He shuffled into the house, locking the door behind him, and into the living room. Ryan was sleeping on the couch (and seriously, did Ryan even have a bed? If he did, did he know what to use it for?), arm flung out off the side, head tilted backwards, and he looked peaceful and fast asleep, so Brendon turned down the music to a low hum and left him there while he brushed his teeth and changed into his pajamas.

He was about to go to bed when it struck him that Ryan would probably be cold, so he went into Ryan’s bedroom (it wasn’t _snooping_ ; Brendon was too tired to even look around him properly, anyway) and dragged Ryan’s quilt out into the lounge, spread it over the sleeping guy. Ryan made a small sound and rolled over a little, curling his fingers in the duvet and pulling it up close to his face, snuggling down into it. He looked small and sort of vulnerable, and Brendon stared at him for a moment, and then reached down and smoothed cold fingers over Ryan’s cheek.

Ryan mumbled something and Brendon jolted back, surprised at his own audacity. He scurried off to bed and crawled under his own covers, and fell asleep just fine. He didn’t think about Ryan out there in the shadows of the lounge, sleeping and unconcerned. He didn’t think about the way Ryan’s hand had curled, just briefly, around his wrist when Brendon had touched his face.

*

Ryan was already waiting for him out in the kitchen when Brendon got up, enticed by the smell of bacon and eggs (and Brendon is a vegetarian, really. Mostly, anyway). When Brendon came in, Ryan looked over with a fleeting expression of panic that settled into steely determination, and finally a pleasant smile.

“Morning,” Ryan said, with slightly scary amounts of cheeriness.

“Good morning,” Brendon responded warily, edging into the room and wondering what had happened to the guy who refused to speak until he’d had at least four cups of coffee.

“Are you hungry?” Ryan asked, and Brendon nodded and was promptly handed a plate heaped with bacon and eggs and hot buttered toast, possibly arranged in a demented smiley face but it was kind of hard to tell, and a glass of—

“Dude,” Brendon breathed in awe, holding the tall glass up at eye level, “Is this a _smoothie_?”

Ryan said, “Spencer said you liked banana?” and then looked gratified when Brendon beamed at him.

Ryan took a plate for himself and Brendon told him about the show, trying to be fair and include mentions of the really cool drum patterns they had going on for a few songs as well as the bassist tripping over his shoelaces at one point and the lead singer making huge, emoting eyes at the audience for at least half the time they were on, and Ryan listened and laughed in all the appropriate places, resting his cheek in his hand.

Eventually Brendon trailed to a halt and blinked at Ryan, raised an eyebrow. Ryan screwed up his mouth to the side and looked away, and Brendon said, through a mouthful of soggy-with-egg toast, “So, what—”

“So your apartment will be back to normal tomorrow?” Ryan blurted out, and Brendon looked down at his plate, wondered if this was some kind of goodbye and thanks for all the fish meal. Maybe Ryan wanted him to move out early, maybe he had visitors or just needed his own space again. Something sour and heavy settled in Brendon’s gut, and it took him a moment to swallow his mouthful.

“Yeah,” he said, finally, and there was an expectant silence but he couldn’t think of anything else to say.

Ryan heaved out a breath and said, in a rush, “I was thinking, what if. What if you didn’t go back?”

“Um,” Brendon said, confused. “What?”

“I should – it’s been nice, having you here,” Ryan said, concentrating very hard on a spot on Brendon’s forehead. “And I get kinda lonely sometimes, but you’re. Really cool, and fun, and I just think. It would be nice, if you stayed.” He took a breath and nodded decisively, said, “Yeah. Yeah, you should. You should stay.”

“Oh,” Brendon said, and understood; he smiled, felt it widen and spread over his face uncontrollably. “You wanted to be, like, roommates?”

“If you liked,” Ryan said, still slightly pink in the cheek, and Brendon nodded his head up and down as fast as he could.

“Yeah,” he said. “Yeah, I’d really love that.”

Ryan laughed, short and relieved, and said, “Good, then.” He stood up and shuffled around to Brendon’s side of the table and stood there a little awkwardly for a split second before Brendon got it, and then Brendon stood up and hugged him, hard, and Ryan dropped his head onto Brendon’s shoulder and they stood there for a long moment, both smiling.

Then Brendon glanced at the table and the breakfast spread and said, with growing glee, “Dude, was the breakfast to _woo_ me into being your roommate?”

Ryan went red, and Brendon burst out laughing.

*

Brendon called his landlord from Ryan’s phone (“Our phone,” Ryan said, grinning, because he was apparently a huge dork and hadn’t had a roommate since college, and that had been Spencer anyway so it hadn’t counted, so he followed Brendon around for the rest of the morning saying, “ _Our_ couch!” and then turning bright red and shutting up for like twenty minutes before he forgot again and responded to Brendon asking him if he wanted to watch some morning cartoons with “On _our_ TV?”) and let the guy bitch at him for a while. Brendon figured it was fair enough, kicking a big fuss over getting all the power turned back on and then deciding he wanted to move out.

It was organized okay, though; Brendon had to have all his stuff out within two weeks, and Ryan was having trouble writing that day, anyway, so they went over to Brendon’s place and packed up a bunch of stuff. It helped that Brendon was really bad at moving in, and he’d only had the apartment for a year (six months of which he hadn’t been there), so a lot of stuff was still in boxes. They packed up all of his CDs and his smaller collection of books, and Ryan took a fancy to Brendon’s cutlery supply, so they took that too, and the rest of his clothes.

Over the next two weeks, they moved Brendon into the apartment pretty rapidly. Brendon felt weird about it at first, asking whether he could move Ryan’s stuff to fit some of his own, and turning the spare bedroom into a lot messier place that he could call his own bedroom. They had a few arguments over which furniture of Brendon’s to keep and which to get rid of in various ways, but mostly when they were starting to get on each other’s nerves Brendon would go out or watch TV and Ryan would just wander off and lock himself in his study, and they worked together pretty well, really.

The day Brendon gave back his key was the day Spencer got back, so he and Ryan arranged to meet Spence for dinner. Spencer was already there when they got to the (Indian) restaurant, and Brendon had known Ryan was a pretty good hugger, but seriously, wow. Ryan practically charged across the floor and then gave Spencer the biggest, brightest smile Brendon had ever seen before clutching at him.

Brendon was glad that it was Spencer (Spencer, who he’d known forever), because with a stranger it would have been kind of awkward watching Ryan doing that. Spencer just grinned at Brendon over Ryan’s shoulder, though, and held onto his best friend tighter than Brendon thought was really wise (dude was kind of spindly, after all) before Ryan finally let go and stepped back and said, “Hi.”

“Hi,” Spencer said back, and then gave Brendon a hug, and then they all sat down for dinner.

They stayed at the restaurant until closing, Spencer giving them the recap of his ‘highly boring’ trip and Brendon talking a little bit about Europe, when prompted. Spencer, thankfully, gave up on asking about it pretty soon (although he did give Brendon suspicious gazes for the rest of the night), and Ryan moved a little closer, leg warm against Brendon’s, arm dropped easily around Brendon’s shoulders.

When they walked home, Spencer taking a cab when he was too tired to walk them any further, Spencer and Ryan talked quietly, fast conversations that jumped from place to place. They would have been easier to follow, probably, if Brendon wasn’t so suddenly sleepy, and so instead he just injected a drowsy comment now and then, and eventually dropped his head on Spencer’s shoulders. It was a little uncomfortable to do while walking, but Spencer laughed down at him, eyes bright.

“It’s, like, eleven o’clock,” he said. “How are you tired?”

“He’s still fucked up on touring,” Ryan said wearily.

“Hey,” Brendon said, affronted, “It’s your fucking, oooh, let’s watch a movie at two AM attitude that’s stopping me from getting used to sleeping properly,” and Ryan laughed, nodded his head in defeat.

“Come on,” Ryan told him, and tugged Brendon towards him, one arm warm and comforting around his waist. “Time for us to get you home and into bed.”

“Yes, mom,” Brendon said, even though that was pretty much the lamest retort he could have come up with.

“I don’t think Ryan’s your _mom_ ,” Spencer said, something glinting in his eyes, and Ryan, inexplicably, turned pink.

*

Brendon was washing the dishes and listening to his iPod, but he still heard Ryan when he came in, old man slippers scraping along the floor. He turned his head and Ryan smiled absently at him, eyes faraway, gazing out the tiny window in the corner of the room. It was late afternoon and the sunlight was slanting into the room at the right angle, and Brendon could see hundreds of dust motes floating, dancing around Ryan.

Ryan tugged at the sleeve of his soft, worn Fall Out Boy t-shirt and for a moment he looked as though he’d never been in that place before, blinking slightly as if confused. For a moment, he looked tired and afraid, and Brendon took an involuntary step forward; then Ryan smiled at Brendon again, and left, brushing his fingers against Brendon’s arm briefly as he exited.

Brendon reached out and clutched uselessly at empty air.

*

Cash looked out the window of the diner into the pouring rain and said, “So, how’s living with the crazy dude going for you?”

“He’s not crazy,” Brendon said, automatically, and Cash laughed.

“The last time Smith dragged him out to one of Singer’s parties,” Cash told him, leaning across the table, “He spent, like, the whole time standing in a corner looking like someone was trying to hunt him down and, and eat him or something, and then he heard Marshall and Jon quoting some scene from _Titanic_ , and it made his eyes go all big and he went off and wrote in a diary or something for the rest of the night.”

“He’s not crazy,” Brendon repeated, and then smiled reluctantly. “He gets kind of distracted, though. You probably caught him on a bad night.” Brendon knew, though, that Cash wouldn’t have caught Ryan on one of his _actual_ bad nights, because those nights make Ryan restless and snappish, like an animal backed into a corner. Brendon hadn't got Ryan all figured out just yet, but he didn't think he needed to, either. That wasn't how Ryan worked.

“He doesn’t seem _that_ bad,” Cash admitted.

“No,” Brendon said. “Not at all.”

*

The record label got him a show downtown somewhere, and even though he was meant to be on vacation it was a seriously tiny venue, and Brendon figured why not. It wasn’t a big deal at all, really, and he didn’t think it would be anything special, which is why he was surprised when he looked up and saw Ryan standing at the back, leaning against the wall with his hands in his pockets.

Ryan caught his eye and smiled and Brendon grinned back, and then he leaned forward and said into the microphone, “So this song is about things that are new and weird sometimes, but still pretty awesome.”

It turned out to be one of his best shows, one of those weird, quiet things that you don’t ever really expect, and it’s still not a big deal, but Brendon was kind of glad that Ryan had been there to see it, after all.

That song, though: he lowered his head and sung, looking at the front row of the audience, and he didn’t look back at Ryan until the very end. Ryan was watching, and Brendon could see his eyes dark and intent even that far away. Ryan nodded, just once, and Brendon smiled again and later, when they were going home together, Ryan told him, “Sometimes change isn’t such a shitty thing, you know. Like you and your family not – not speaking and stuff, that’s pretty shitty, but it doesn’t always have to be that something new fucks everything up.”

Ryan wasn’t very good at being subtle, so Brendon didn’t even bother; he stepped close and adjusted Ryan’s scarf, fingers careful and said, “I know. Like you moving to Chicago, right?”

“Right,” Ryan said, and he looked surprised, but not angry. “Right,” he repeated, and nodded.

“I get it,” Brendon said, and smiled.

*

Brendon was watching the last of the dirty water gurgle down the drain and fishing dirty strands of spinach out from getting stuck in there (making a face as he did so) when Ryan wandered into the kitchen that day, casting sneaky eyes at Brendon as if he wouldn’t notice when Ryan drank orange juice out of the carton from the fridge.

“You’re disgusting,” Brendon told him, offhandedly, and Ryan laughed softly and went to move past him, fingers brushing against Brendon’s forearm just slightly.

Brendon swiveled, reached out, and caught Ryan’s elbow in his hand.

His fingers felt cold and dry against Ryan’s warm skin, and he realized suddenly that he was shaking a little bit, with suppressed energy and apprehension, and he thought _Ryan’s one of the best friends you’ve ever had and you’re probably about to fuck this up_ but kept a firm grip on Ryan’s arm anyway. He tugged, slightly, pulling Ryan back and around and Ryan blinked at him, wide eyes and long eyelashes and it was almost five o’clock and an overcast day, and the shadows played on Ryan’s skin. Ryan didn’t say anything out loud, but his mouth opened on twists of words: _what. What?_ Brendon bit his lip and stared, and Ryan blinked slightly, bewildered, and then Brendon leaned in and kissed him. Just gently, like he was afraid that if he was too clear about it, too strong, than this boy whose elbow he’s holding, whose mouth he is pressing his own mouth against, will turn away and bolt from him, leaving Brendon’s fingers closing slowly on still warm, empty air.

Ryan stayed, leaned in, and kissed Brendon back.

*

Ryan’s hands were almost absurdly gently when he held Brendon’s face, tilting Brendon’s chin up towards him, but his mouth was sure and firm and his tongue was – oh, fuck, Brendon thought, and let out a shuddering breath, held Ryan’s hips and pulled him closer towards him. The late afternoon felt still and cold around Brendon’s skin, the hours in between bright sunshine where everything seems possible and the night where everything also seems possible, and he’d never really liked this time of day, but Ryan was licking into his mouth, sucking gently on his bottom lip and Brendon pressed back mindlessly against him, hands slipping up under Ryan’s shirt.

He broke away finally and took a breath; Ryan was staring at him, eyes warm and a little bit worried, too, and Brendon sighed, tilted his head back up to the ceiling. Ryan moved forward and nuzzled against the side of Brendon’s face, pressing a warm, slightly sloppy kiss to his cheekbone and Brendon smiled, let out a shaky laugh.

“Are you freaking out?” Ryan asked, and then added, “It’s okay if you are.”

“I’m not,” Brendon said, honestly. “I just—”

“Didn’t really expect me to kiss back, did you?” Ryan asked, and Brendon laughed again but in a warmer way, and Ryan grinned against his skin and tugged lightly at Brendon’s earlobe with his teeth. Brendon hummed and rolled his hips lazily against Ryan, and out of the corner of his eye he saw Ryan swallow hard, Adam’s apple dragging against the line of his throat.

“If you don’t,” Brendon said, hesitantly, “I mean – I really. Like you. And all that shit. But if you think living together would be too weird, if we were – I mean, if you were interested in doing this again—”

Ryan giggled a little bit and said, “Don’t hurt yourself, dude,” and then he pulled back and looked at Brendon with an amused, assessing expression. “Thank you, I like you too. Also I like living with you, so don’t be stupid, okay?”

“Okay,” Brendon said, and put two fingers under Ryan’s chin, guided him closer and kissed him again. Ryan tasted like orange juice, the dregs of the afternoon, and he made soft sounds under his breath when Brendon sucked on his tongue.

“Hey,” Brendon whispered, breaking away again but staying close, mouth moving against the corner of Ryan’s lips, “Hey, if I go to Europe again—”

“I’ve always wanted to see Rome,” Ryan said, easily, and Brendon nodded, eyes bright, and kissed him again.

*

Brendon woke up to find the space beside him empty, for the first time in a week, and he could hear footsteps moving around in the kitchen, and the bubbling of a pot. It wasn’t even six, and there was a second there, rolling out of bed, where he honestly thought he was going to pass out with exhaustion. He hadn’t slept last night till two AM (no – three; “Come on,” Ryan had said impatiently, eyes dark, mouth red and swollen, “Don’t be a wuss,”) and he was more than a little annoyed when he came into the kitchen, but Ryan was lifting up the blind and peering out into the beginning of the dawn, and his shoulders were hunched in on himself.

“Hey,” Brendon said, and then choked on a yawn, and Ryan turned slowly, scratching at the stubble on his chin.

“Hi,” he said, and offered a tiny smile. “Couldn’t sleep.”

“I figured,” Brendon said, and took the coffee off the pot, fixed Ryan a cup. Ryan came over and sighed, and then he leaned in and mouthed down Brendon’s jaw. Brendon grinned and turned to him and said, “Coffee first, dude, I’ve had like, three hours sleep.”

Ryan nodded and took his cup and then asked, “D’you wanna go to the Farmer’s Markets again today?”

Brendon’s gaze flitted to the still overcrowded fridge, and then to the window. Outside, the rain started up again, pattering against the window and the roof, and Ryan smiled and shook his head, said, “Never mind.” He exhaled, loudly, and Brendon moved closer, putting his barely sipped cup of coffee down and slipped one hand under Ryan’s shirt, smoothing it down his side and then curling his hand over Ryan’s hip. Ryan leaned into him, a little bit taller than him, lips against Brendon’s ear, and then he shifted his weight and lifted his chin in some inner automatic gesture of defiance, proud and smiling in the blue light of early morning.


End file.
